Chapter 12
KONSTANTIN
The elevator doors slide open. I step into the penthouse.
The air inside is cool. It’s a hell of a difference from the smell of blood back at the Estate. I rip off my tie as I walk into the living area. My shirt is still stained with Mikhail’s blood.
"Ivan," I call out. "Report."
Ivan is already here with his setup, occupying the dining table. Lev stands by the balcony, cleaning his gun.
Ivan doesn't look up from his screens. "The firewall is patched," he says. "I closed the Founder’s Key exploit. Arthur won't be able to open the door again, but…"
"But what?" I demand, pouring myself a tumbler of vodka.
"I found a secondary script," he explains. "While the chat window was open on Helena's screen, a background process was running. It scraped the desktop."
I freeze, tumbler halfway to my mouth. "What did they take?"
"The logistics manifest," Ivan says. "It means they know the ship name, the Lady Anastasia. They know the departure time and the return route from Venezuela."
I slam the tumbler down. It shatters, sending vodka and crystal shards across the marble counter.
"They know about the shipment," I snarl. "How? You said the firewall held."
"It happened during the chat," Ivan explains, typing furiously. "When the 'Dad' window popped up, it wasn't just a message. It was a Trojan Horse. While she was staring at her father's words, a background script was scraping the schedule."
"They don't have the encryption key," Ivan adds, pointing to my pocket where the tablet is. "They can't open the containers, but they know where the ship is."
"They don't need to open them," I say, my voice low. "They only need to sink or hijack it."
Moretti isn't trying to steal my weapons. He’s trying to bleed me. He knows those missiles aren't merchandise. They’re the hammer I need to crush him. If I lose that shipment, I lose the war before I can fire a single shot. And the throne.
"Change the route," I order.
"I can't," Ivan says. "The manifest is already logged with the Port Authority. If we pull the ship from the schedule now, it triggers an automatic audit. We’re locked in."
I run a hand over my face. The rage is a physical weight in my chest.
Arthur Blackwood. That fool. He didn't just sell his daughter; he turned a smuggling run into a naval war.
"Where is she?" I ask Lev.
"In the library," he answers. "She refused to stay in the room. She said she’d burn the place down if I locked her in."
I turn and march toward the double oak doors at the end of the hall.
"Boss," Lev warns. "She’s upset."
I ignore him and kick the library doors open.
Helena is standing by the fireplace. She has wrapped her arms around herself, still wearing the clothes from the office, barefoot.
She spins around when I enter. Her attention locks on the blood on my shirt.
"Is it true?" she asks. Her voice is shaking, but her chin is high.
"Is what true?" I walk over to the decanter on the sideboard to pour another drink, needing the burn.
"That my father is gone," she says. "That he... that he gave them the key."
"He sold you," I say. "He traded the Founder's Key for a promise of safety. He gave Moretti the keys to your kingdom."
"Why?" she whispers.
"Because he’s a coward."
"No," she steps toward me. "It's not that. It's not just business with you, is it?"
I turn to look at her. "Everything is business."
"Liar," she snaps. "I saw your face in the office. I saw how you looked when you talked about him. You don't just want his company. You want him dead. You want him to suffer."
She closes the distance between us. Desperation has made her reckless. Stupid.
"This is personal," she says, poking me in the chest. "You didn't target Blackwood Shipping because it was a good asset. You targeted it because it was his."
I catch her hand before she can poke me again, gripping her wrist, hard.
"Careful."
"Tell me!" she demands, wrenching against my grip. "If I’m going to be your prisoner, if I’m going to be collateral in this war, I deserve to know why. What did he do to you?"
"He took everything," I sneer. The sound echoes off the high ceilings.
I release her wrist. She stumbles back, rubbing the red marks on her skin.
"Twenty years ago," I say, the words tearing out of me. "Your father was my father's partner. They were supposed to be brothers. But Arthur wasn't satisfied with steady profits. He wanted more. He wanted to expand the fleet, to buy routes he couldn't afford."
She watches me, her eyes wide. "I don't believe you."
"Greed, Helena," I spit the word out. "The Italians offered him a mountain of cash to betray us, enough to secure the Blackwood legacy you are so proud of."
I step toward her. She backs up until her legs hit the leather sofa.
"He sold us," I continue. "He didn't just sell a shipping route. He sold the formation. He gave Don Moretti the exact coordinates of my family's convoy."
"The convoy?" she whispers.
"He told them which car was armored," I say, the memory choking me. "Told them exactly where my father would be sitting. And he knew who was sitting next to him."
She doesn’t answer.
"My mother," I answer anyway. "And my sister. Katya. She was seven."
She covers her mouth with her hand. A small, strangled sound escapes her throat.
"I was in the rear car," I say, forcing her to look at me, to see the boy I was. "I was thirteen. I watched the missile hit them. I watched the car disintegrate. I didn't just see bodies, Helena. I saw ash. I breathed them in."
"No," she whispers, shaking her head. She backs away until she hits the wall. "He wouldn't. He isn’t a killer. He built the company. He worked hard..."
But her voice trails off. Her eyes lose focus, looking inward, searching her own past.
"The expansion," she murmurs, the color draining from her face.
"What?"
"I was five," she says, her voice hollow. "That was the year we bought the new fleet. The year we built the Estate."
She looks up at me, horror dawning in her expression.
"I remember. I walked into his study one night. He was burning papers in the fireplace. He was crying. He told me he had done a 'terrible thing' to secure our future. I thought he meant a bad loan. I didn't know... God, I didn't know it was blood."
Tears spill over her lashes. Genuine tears. She looks at me, and I see the moment her heart breaks, not for herself, but for the weight of what her name has cost me.
"Konstantin..." she breathes, her voice trembling. "I... I’m so sorry."
Her touch burns through my shirt. It snaps the last thread of my control. I don’t want her pity. I don’t want her softness.
I grab her waist and haul her against me.
"Don’t you dare pity me," I growl.
I crash my mouth down on hers and bite her lip, forcing her mouth open.
She gasps, but she doesn’t fight. She melts, like she’s trying to absorb every shard of pain I threw at her. Her hands slide up my chest, pulling me closer.
She wants to console me. She wants to atone for her father’s sins with her body, offering herself not out of desire, but out of the crushing weight of what she learned.
The thought should disgust me. Instead, it ignites something feral.
I lift her, slam her back against the bookshelf. Books tumble, pages fluttering like dying birds. I don’t care.
I press my hips into hers, grinding hard so she feels every inch of me, how much I want to ruin her. My hands roam, rough, tearing at her blouse.
Her buttons scatter, and the lace beneath rips. Her breasts spill free, nipples already hard from the shock.
I bite down on one, sucking hard enough to bruise. She cries out, arching, fingers digging into my shoulders.
“You want to fix this?” I snarl against her skin. “You want to pay for what he took?”
I shove her skirt up and rip her panties aside. My fingers plunge into her pussy without warning, two, then three, finding her slick, clenching around me despite herself.
“Yes,” she rasps, hips shifting against my hand. “If this helps you... If this makes it right... Take it. I’m sorry, Konstantin. I’m so sorry.”
Her apology is fuel.
I pump harder, curling my fingers, hitting that spot in her pussy that makes her thighs tremble.
She’s wet, body responding even as her eyes fill with tears, but she doesn’t beg.
She lets me take, whispering broken apologies, desperate to give me what she thinks I need to ease the wound her family carved.
I yank my belt open and shove my trousers down enough to free my cock. Thick, aching, leaking at the tip.
She drops to her knees without me asking, eyes locked on mine, wide with remorse. Her hands wrap around me, gentle at first, then firmer, stroking slowly before she leans in and takes my cock into her mouth.
The heat is devastating. Her tongue swirls around the head, then deeper as she hollows her cheeks, sucking. I fist her hair, guiding her roughly, hips jerking forward to meet her throat. She gags but doesn’t pull back. She takes more.
I growl, thrusting shallowly, watching her lips stretch around my cock, the way she works me with steady strokes.
She’s not chasing her own pleasure. She’s trying to erase the past with every careful movement, every muffled apology.
It’s too much.
I pull her off with a wet pop, haul her up, and spin her to face the bookshelf, bending her forward. Her palms slap against the wood for balance. I kick her legs wider, notch my cock at her pussy entrance, pressing enough to feel her heat, her slickness coating the tip.
She doesn’t push back or beg. She whispers, “If this is what you need to make the pain stop, do it.”
I look down at her, bent over, skirt rucked up, blouse torn. She’s trembling not from want but from the weight of guilt.
Her eyes meet mine in the reflection of the bookshelf glass. The exact shade of Arthur’s. The same eyes that must have looked at my father when he sold us out. The same eyes that watched his empire grow on the ashes of my mother and sister.
The world tilts.
Ice floods my veins.
I’m a heartbeat from thrusting into her pussy, into the daughter of the man who murdered my family, and she’s offering it like penance, like her body could balance the scales.
I freeze.
My hand tightens in her hair, painfully, then releases. I step away. My cock is still wet, throbbing angrily in the open air.
Hands shaking, I turn my back on the act. On her.
She straightens slowly, leaning against the bookshelf for support. Her skirt falls back into place, and her blouse hangs open.
“Konstantin?” she whispers.
My chest heaves, fighting for air. I take in her reflection in the darkened window. She’s looking at me with those damn green eyes. Arthur’s eyes.
The hate rises in my throat, choking me, warring with a lust so violent it terrifies me. If I take her now, I won’t stop. I’ll break her just to see if she bleeds the same color as my sister.
"Get out.”
She steps forward, reaching out. "But—"
"Go!" I roar, grabbing a glass and shattering it against the hearth. "Before I forget who you are."
She flinches back and yanks her blouse closed. Her face crumbles from passion to shame.
And she runs.
Her footsteps echo down the hall, followed by the slam of the bedroom door.
Breathing heavily, I look at my hands. They’re shaking. My cock still aches, traitorously hard. I chose revenge. I chose the hate. But for those few moments, with her mouth on me, offering herself brokenly, I wanted her more than I wanted the war.
I straighten my jacket and push the weakness down, deep where the light can't touch it, then walk out of the library and back to the main room.
Ivan looks up, sensing the mood. He doesn't ask.
"The ship," I say, my voice dead flat. "Status?"
"It's still on course, Boss," he replies. "But if the Italians know the route, they’ll be waiting. They won't try to sink it. They’ll try to seize it."
"Let them try," I challenge.
I touch the tablet in my pocket. The codes are safe. The weapons are safe.
But Helena is exposed.
If Moretti knows the route, he knows I’m moving pieces, and he knows Arthur gave him the keys. He’ll come for the only leverage I have left. He’ll try to take her back or kill her to hurt me.
No one touches my collateral.
"We aren't running," I tell Ivan. "The ship stays on course. We need those weapons. They’re the only way I can burn Moretti's empire to the ground."
"And the girl?" Ivan asks. "If Arthur is working with Moretti, she’s a liability. She might try to run to him."
I look at the dark hallway where she disappeared.
"She won't run," I say, a cold plan forming in my mind. "Because by tomorrow night, she won't be able to."
"What are you going to do?"
I walk to the window and take in the city. The lights are bright, but the shadows are deep.
"I’ll ensure she never leaves me," I say. "If Arthur Blackwood thinks he can steal her back, he’s wrong."
I turn to Lev.
"Prepare the car for tomorrow morning. We’re going to the office. It’s time to close the trap."